Miss Greenhorn by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

could feel him drawing away from her. She wrapped her arms across her breasts and stared quietly out the window all the way back.
    He walked her to her cottage with a minimum of conversation, as silent as the palo verde trees that lined the walk.
    She unlocked her door and turned on the light inside, turning to Nate with a question in her eyes.
    â€œI’ll see you in the morning,” he remarked. He touched her cheek with his fingers and abruptly turned and walked away.
    Christy went inside and closed the door. She felt as if he’d already closed one in her face, and she didn’t even understand why.
    * * *
    George hovered at breakfast the next morning until she had to invite him to sit with her. At least he was consistent, she thought bitterly. Nate had gone out earlier on his way to work, apparently, and he’d spared her no more than a glance and a curt nod. His behavior was the most puzzling she’d ever seen.
    â€œDid you have a good time with Mr. Lang last night?” George asked, a little too casually.
    â€œIt was all right,” she said, downplaying it. She smiled at George over a forkful of scrambled eggs. “How was the chess game?”
    â€œI won.” He laughed. “First time, too. Mrs. Lang played several games with me. She’s very nice.”
    â€œYes, I like her, too. What are we going to do today?”
    â€œMore of the same thing we did yesterday,” George said. “Archaeology is a very exacting science. I used to think it would be glamorous and adventurous to go searching for ancient ruins. Now that I’ve discovered you do most of the work with a sifting box and a toothbrush, it’s lost a lot of its appeal. I think I’ll stick to anthropology.”
    â€œIsn’t that the same kind of thing?”
    â€œBasically, but an anthropologist can go and live in Third World cultures that have their roots in the past. He can experience first-hand the kind of lives they live. Remember reading about Margaret Mead and all the exciting places she went? That’s what I’d like to do.”
    â€œYou could wind up in somebody’s stewing pot in the jungle,” she felt obliged to point out.
    He shrugged. “Death is nothing more than transition from one plane of existence to another, Christy. Why be afraid of it?”
    â€œThat’s a different way of thinking about it,” she said, taken aback by his easy acceptance of something that was, to her, formidable.
    â€œMy parents were missionaries,” he grinned. “I grew up in places where you could wind up in a stew pot. That’s why I’m not afraid of it.”
    â€œOh, I see.” She smiled at him. “I guess your childhood was a lot more exciting than mine.”
    â€œYou’re from Jacksonville, aren’t you?” he asked.
    She nodded. “It’s a great place to live. But I like Arizona,” she added, and her eyes went dreamy.
    George grimaced. It wasn’t hard to see why she liked it. He sipped his orange juice and wondered why he couldn’t be more dashing.
    Later, Christy sat with him while they worked at the dig, poring over pottery pieces. He didn’t know that her mind was on the way Nate Lang had kissed her the night before and his strange behavior afterward and today.
    Nate didn’t come around all day, and he wasn’t at supper. Christy called Joyce Ann because she was bored and sad and nervous and needed to talk.
    â€œAre you getting homesick?” her older sister asked hopefully.
    â€œNot really,” Christy began.
    â€œWell, Harry must miss you. He’s called three times already. Look, Christy, I know he leaves a lot to be desired, but he’d take good care of you…”
    â€œI know that, Joyce Ann,” she told the older woman gently. She couldn’t blame her sister for wanting to see her settled and secure. But Harry was not at all her idea of the husband she wanted to spend her life